


Not Your Angel

by bergamotbasil



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Jane Eyre Fusion, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Simon Snow, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, POV Simon Snow, Pining, Simon Snow Loves Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Slow Build, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Loves Simon Snow, Watford (Simon Snow)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:28:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25926643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bergamotbasil/pseuds/bergamotbasil
Summary: In need of a fresh start, Simon Salisbury takes a job as a private tutor at Watford Hall. He isn't sure what to expect, but he's taken aback when he meets Mr. Pitch, the brooding and mysterious master of the house.Or, Jane Eyre but make it snowbaz.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 27
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

**Simon**

It’s nearly midnight by the time I arrive at Watford Hall. 

My entire body aches from the journey. I’ve never liked riding in carriages, especially not for six hours. I’m also starving and exhausted, and I’m starting to question whether I should have come here at all. 

Sure, the position of a private tutor in a nice home is a significant step up from teaching the boys at the orphanage, but it still feels strange to be out on my own in a new place. Besides, I don’t even know what to expect at Watford. When I sent my advertisement in search of a job to the paper, they were the only place to respond. All the letter said was that I was requested to tutor a little girl at Watford Hall, and it was signed by a _Miss Petty._ I didn’t much question it. I was eager to get away from the orphanage, to get somewhere _new_ for the first time that I could remember. It felt like my life was finally beginning. 

The carriage begins to slow, and I feel my stomach twist. I guess it’s too late to turn back now. Once we’ve stopped, the driver takes my bag and then leads me through the gates. It’s hard to see much of it in the dark, but the house seems to be enormous. It has to be at least four stories high, although I can only see lights on in a few of the windows on the first floor. 

We walk down the path towards the front door, and then step inside. The warmth and light of the house is a shock compared with the dark, chill night outside. The driver hands my bag to a servant who I suppose will take it to my room. Another servant appears then, a young woman, and smiles at me politely. “Mr. Salisbury,” she says, “How was your journey?” 

“It was fine, thank you.” I rub the back of my neck, nervously. It feels odd to be called _Mr. Salisbury_ when all I’ve ever been called before is _Salisbury_ (or more often not been called anything at all). It feels odd to be treated like someone respectable. Like someone who matters.

The woman smiles again and helps me to take off my jacket. “Come on then,” she says. “I’ll show you to Miss Petty. She’ll be glad to see you’ve arrived.”

I follow her from the foyer down a long hallway, and then into a cozy looking drawing room with grey carpets, deep red furniture, and a roaring fireplace. There’s an older woman sitting in one of the plush chairs, knitting. She stands up when she sees us walk in.

“You must be Mr. Salisbury,” she smiles warmly, taking my hand in both of hers and squeezing it just a bit. 

“Yes, ma’am,” I nod. 

“I’m Miss Petty, but you’re welcome to call me Ebb.” She lets go of my hand and gestures to the chair opposite her own. “Come, dear, and sit by the fire. You must have had a long journey.” 

I do as I’m told, leaning back into the chair and feeling the warmth of the fire envelop me. 

“Vera,” Miss Petty says, looking to the servant who brought me in, “Won’t you go get some tea and sandwiches for Mr. Salisbury?”

Vera nods and turns to leave.

Miss Petty - Ebb - turns back to me. “Now, Mr. Salisbury,” she starts. Her voice is gentle and friendly, and I already feel quite comfortable in her presence, even if she is my employer. “I’m glad that you’ve made it here safely. Miss Grimm has already been put to bed, but I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you in the morning,” she says.

“Miss Grimm?” I ask.

“Yes, Miss Grimm - Mordelia - is the little girl you’ll be tutoring. She should be no trouble for you at all. She’s a brilliant girl.”

“Oh,” I say, leaning forward a bit to hold my hands by the fire, “And Miss Grimm…is she a relation of yours?”

“Oh, no,” Ebb says. “Miss Grimm is the daughter of the late Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Grimm. She’s the half-sister of young Mr. Pitch.” 

I must look confused, because she adds, “Surely you’ve heard of Mr. Pitch, the owner of Watford Hall?”

“I haven’t,” I say, “I actually…well, I figured you owned Watford Hall, ma’am.”

Ebb laughs. “Me? No, love, I’m just the housekeeper. Mr. Pitch inherited Watford after the death of his father a few years back. He’s hardly ever here, though. He stops by now and again to see little Mordelia, but usually he’s out on business or traveling abroad.” 

“Oh,” I nod, feeling myself relax a bit with the knowledge that Ebb is only the housekeeper and not the lady of the house. “And…does Mr. Pitch have a wife?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No, he has yet to take one. I wish he would! He always seems so lonely and cold during his visits to Watford. Though, he is only twenty - I suppose he doesn’t want to settle down just yet.” 

I nod again. I wonder what sort of person this Mr. Pitch might be.

Vera soon comes back with tea and a plate of cheese sandwiches, which I practically inhale.

Ebb and I continue to chat for a bit before we bid goodnight and I’m shown up to my room. Vera takes me up a winding staircase to the third floor. My room turns out to be undoubtedly the nicest I’ve ever stayed in. I’ve never had a room to myself, that I can remember, so it’s hard to believe that all this space is just for me. 

I quickly dig through my bag for my pyjamas and change into them, eager to finally get some rest. 

I blow out my candle and collapse into bed, falling asleep almost immediately.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty short chapter but more updates will be coming soon!

I wake up with more energy than I’ve had in ages. 

I climb out of bed and stretch my arms above my head, feeling my shoulders pop. My bag is lying on the floor where I left last night. I pick it up and begin to shift through my belongings. I don’t have much to unpack - just a couple changes of clothes and some drawings and books that I brought with from the orphanage. I take a fresh shirt and a pair of trousers and go to the en suite to wash up and change. 

When I finish and take a look at myself in the mirror, I’m still a bit of a mess. My hair is a pile of thick, untameable curls and my clothes are old and worn. But, I suppose this is as good as I’m going to get. 

I make my way downstairs and back towards the entrance where I came in yesterday. Now that it’s morning, sunlight is streaming in through all the windows, giving the house a bright and airy feel. It doesn’t seem like anyone else is awake yet, so I decide to take a look outside, opening the front door tentatively and stepping out. 

Watford Hall is magnificent in the light of day. It’s even bigger than it seemed last night, with red brick walls and dark grey trim. There’s an orchard and a lovely garden out front, and a lush green forest ropes around the side and back of the house. It seems so far away from anywhere else, too. There are no neighbors, and from what I remember of the drive last night, the nearest town is quite a distance off. 

I stroll around for a bit, taking everything in. Eventually Ebb comes out to find me.

“There you are, Mr. Salisbury,” she says. “You’re an early riser, I see. I hope you slept well?”

“Very well, thank you,” I say. “I just wanted to explore the grounds a bit.”

“Yes, we have quite a beautiful little place here, don’t we?” Ebb says. 

I nod. “It’s lovely. I think I’ll quite like it here.”

She smiles. “I’m glad to hear it. Now, come on inside, Mr. Salisbury, and you can have some breakfast.” 

This is possibly the best breakfast I’ve had in my life. There’s fried eggs, fried mushrooms, baked beans, black pudding, and freshly-baked sour cherry scones. I eat about six of the scones, smearing them with thick slabs of butter.

Afterwards, I’m shown to the nursery. 

On stepping inside, I see a little girl of about seven. She has dark hair and dark eyes, and she’s wearing a pretty violet dress. Sitting alongside her by the fire is a young woman with dark, curly hair, light brown skin, and glasses. They’re in the middle of a conversation, but stop talking abruptly when I walk in. 

The little girl glances at me with a bored expression. “Simon Salisbury, I suppose,” she drawls. 

The woman gives her a stern look. “That’s _Mr._ Salisbury, Mordelia. Now, give him a polite greeting. Go on, then,” she gives the girl a nudge.

Mordelia stands and curtseys for me. “Hello, _Mr._ Salisbury. I’m Mordelia Grimm.”

I smile at her. “It’s nice to meet you, Mordelia. I suppose you know I’ll be your new tutor?”

“Yes,” she says in the same bored tone. “Though I’m not sure what _you_ could possibly teach me. I already know French and German. And I’m _excellent_ at maths.”

I force the smile to stay on my face. This may be more of a challenge than I anticipated. Though I guess it shouldn’t be a huge surprise that a wealthy, spoiled little girl like her would have such an arrogant attitude. 

“That’s quite enough, Mordelia,” the woman says, standing up. “It’s nice to meet you Mr. Salisbury. I’m Penelope Bunce, Mordelia’s nanny. Call me Penelope.” 

She holds out her hand for me to shake. I do. 

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “And please, call me Simon.”


	3. Chapter 3

I’ve been sitting in the nursery all morning with Mordelia, working on German translations. While she’s still probably the most conceited child I’ve ever met, Mordelia _has_ started to warm up to me a bit. I think she might even like me. Sometimes, when I’m done giving her her lessons for the day, she’ll ask me to stay and play games or go outside with her and Penelope. She really is sharp as a whip, too, so teaching her never feels like a chore. 

“Baz knows Greek, you know, and Latin. He’s going to teach me someday,” Mordelia says to me now. We’ve taken a break from working and are having tea and biscuits by the fire. 

“Who’s Baz?” I ask her with my mouth full of biscuit.

“Baz is my big brother,” she says, matter of factly.

“Baz…Do you mean Mr. Pitch?”

“I suppose.” She brushes some crumbs off the front of her dress. “ _I_ just call him Baz.” 

“What’s he like? Baz?” I ask.

“He’s grumpy,” Mordelia says. “And bossy. But he brings me presents when he comes to visit, and he reads to me. Last time he came he brought me a new doll from Paris.”

“Does he come to visit very often?” I ask. I’ve been here almost two weeks now. It seems strange that I still haven’t met the owner of the house.

She shakes her head, silky dark hair tossing back and forth. “No. He almost never comes. I don’t think he likes it here.” 

I think about that. I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t like it here, but Mr. Pitch certainly seems intent on avoiding it. I wonder if there’s anything more to him than what I’ve been told.

I have dinner that night with Mordelia, Penelope, and Ebb. Penelope is telling us about the trip she took to America over the summer to see her fiancé. It’s beautiful, apparently. America. I think I’d like to go there someday. 

Once we’ve finished, Penelope takes Mordelia to get ready for bed and I help Ebb to tidy up a bit. We’re taking our dishes back to the kitchen when she mentions a letter that she needs to have taken into town to be mailed.

“I could take it,” I offer. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it, dear, I’ll have someone take it on their way into town tomorrow. It’s much too cold to be going out tonight.”

“I don’t mind, really. I actually feel like taking a walk. I haven’t gotten out of the house at all today.” 

Ebb looks hesitant, but she eventually agrees to let me go.

I pull on my jacket and stuff the letter into one of the pockets, then head out the door. 

The winter air feels refreshing after a full day of sitting in the warm house. The roads are a bit icy, so I walk slowly, being careful not to let my feet slip. 

After a while, I sit down to take a rest on the side of the road. I pull my jacket tightly around me, starting to feel a bit cold now. From up ahead, I can hear someone coming on a horse. The noise sends a twinge of fear through me. The boys at the orphanage used to tell stories about ghost horses coming to kidnap travelers in the middle of the night on isolated roads. 

When this horse comes into view, though, I can tell it isn’t a ghost. There’s a man riding it, and a shaggy black dog is trailing behind them. 

Suddenly, before I can even blink, the horse slips on a patch of ice and the rider is thrown off. The dog starts barking madly, nudging the man where he’s lying on the ground. I rush over to him in an instant. The man is on his side, clutching his ankle with both hands. With the only light coming from the moon, I can’t see very well what he looks like, but I can tell that he’s tall, with dark hair. 

I crouch down in front of him. “Are you alright?”

He startles a bit when he sees me. “I’m fine.” He tries to get up then, but his ankle gives out under his weight, and he falls back to the ground.

“Here,” I hold out my hand. “Let me help you.”

He looks at my hand suspiciously, but takes it anyways. “If you could just help me back to my horse…” he says.

“Of course.” I lift him up and then wrap my arm around his waist, and he leans into me. I help him walk over to where the horse is standing, and he lets go of me then and is able to mount her himself. 

Once he’s seated, he looks down at me, seeming to study me intently. “Who are you?” he asks. “Where are you coming from?”

I shift uncomfortably under his gaze. “Simon Salisbury, sir. I work at Watford Hall. I’m just taking a letter into town to be mailed.”

“Watford Hall?” he repeats. “What do you do there?”

“I’m a tutor. For the little girl, Miss Grimm.”

“How long have you worked there?”

“About two weeks.”

“Who gave you your job?”

“Miss Petty, the housekeeper.”

He considers this for a moment. “And do you know the owner of Watford Hall?” he asks. “Have you met him?”

“I believe he’s known as Mr. Pitch, sir. But no, I’ve never met him.”

The man nods. “I see. Well, you’d better hurry to get that letter into town, then.”

And with that, he’s gone, riding ahead at full speed with the dog running behind him.

I get the letter sent off and return to Watford as quickly as I can. I’m starting to shiver, my thin jacket doing nothing to protect against the wind. I can’t get the image of that man out of my head. I couldn’t see his face, exactly, but it felt as if he was examining me, trying to read into my mind or something. I wonder where he was going. I wonder who he was. 

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Ebb is in the foyer to greet me when I get back to Watford. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” she says, ushering me inside. “You must be freezing. Come on, then, we’ll go sit by the fire and get you something to eat.” 

“Thanks, Ebb,” I say, working to undo the buttons on my jacket. My fingers are numb from the cold.

“Mr. Pitch just arrived not an hour earlier, looking just as out of sorts as you do,” Ebb says.

I freeze and look up at her. “Mr. Pitch is here?”

She nods. “He was in a terrible accident on the road. I’m afraid his ankle might be broken. We’re sending for a doctor to come see him in the morning.”

I furrow my brows. “What sort of accident? Did anyone see it?”

“No, he was all alone when it happened, thrown off his horse. He’s in quite bad shape. But come on, dear, you can see him yourself. He’s sitting in the drawing room just now.” 

I follow Ebb down the hall and into the drawing room. 

He’s there, just like she said. Mr. Pitch. The same man I met on the road. He’s sitting in a chair with his ankle wrapped up and elevated on a stool. He’s turned away from me, staring into the fire. The shaggy black dog that was with him before is curled up on the carpet.

Ebb clears her throat. “Mr. Pitch,” she says cheerily, “this is Miss Grimm’s new tutor, Mr. Salisbury. He’s just come back from a trip into town.”

Mr. Pitch turns his head slightly and his eyes trail over me from top to bottom. He’s wearing the same bored expression that Mordelia had when she first met me. 

“Salisbury,” he says, then turns back to the fire. He has the same drawling tone as Mordelia, too. Now that I can see his face, I realize he looks a bit like Mordelia, full stop. (Which makes sense, I suppose. They are siblings.) But he’s also bolder, darker. He has smooth reddish-gold skin, sharp cheekbones, and a long, thin nose. His black hair is falling into a lazy wave over his forehead. He’s dead handsome. 

I feel like I should say something, but I’m not sure what. “Yes, um, hello, sir. It’s nice to see you,” I eventually manage. It feels stupid to call someone who’s the same age as me _s_ _ir,_ but with the way Mr. Pitch just looked at me, I’m afraid he might skin me alive if I call him anything else. 

Ebb pushes me to sit down in the chair across from him, then says she’s going to get some sandwiches to bring in here for us. I silently curse her for leaving me alone with him. 

He’s staring at the fire like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Like he doesn’t even notice that I’m here. I look down at my lap, trying to think of something to say. _Anything._

“So, um, where were you?” I ask. “I mean, the past few weeks, when you weren’t at Watford - did you have business somewhere?” 

He turns to glare at me. The intensity of his eyes makes me squirm. He has grey eyes - a mix between dark blue and dark green. 

“That’s really none of your concern, is it, Salisbury?”

I swallow. “Oh. Right. Sorry.” 

He ignores me, turning away again.

“Mordelia’s lessons are going quite well,” I try once more to draw him out. “She’s a great student. She tells me that you used to teach her when she was younger.”

“Yes, it’s a shame I no longer have time to give her a proper education myself. Though I’ll be sure to thank Miss Petty for having hired such an accomplished scholar to take my place.” 

His words are dense with sarcasm. I’m used to this. To people thinking I’m uneducated just because I’m poor. Because I don’t come from a good family. Or any family. I’m used to it, I just didn’t expect him to throw it in my face like that.

I sit back, crossing my arms over my chest, and don’t try to make any more conversation with him. 

Ebb comes back after a few minutes and fills the room with chatter. I scarf down a few of the sandwiches she brought in, and Mr. Pitch watches me like I’m mildly disgusting. He doesn’t eat anything. 


	5. Chapter 5

I don’t see Mr. Pitch when I wake up the next morning, even though his room is apparently right across the hall from mine. I’m told that he has his appointment with the doctor, and is then booked with meetings all day. I’ve never seen Watford Hall so busy. There are carriages arriving and leaving by the hour, various people coming in and talking to Mr. Pitch about various matters. As soon as Mordelia hears that he’s arrived, she demands to see him, but Penelope won’t allow it. 

“I’m sure your brother will have time to see you this evening, Mordelia,” she says. “But we can’t bother him just yet. He has very important matters to take care of.” 

Mordelia just huffs, then collapses into a chair in the nursery to pout. 

I try to work with her on some grammar, but she’s too anxious and fidgety to focus for very long. Honestly, I’m feeling a bit anxious today too. I think Penelope notices, because when Mordelia is settled down for a nap, she sits next to me and asks if anything is the matter. 

I think about telling her it’s nothing, but I’ve come to realize that Penelope isn’t the sort of person that would work with. She’ll keep pressing you until she gets you to talk about whatever it is you don’t want to talk about. So, I tell her about my encounter with Mr. Pitch on the road last night. And how he practically ignored me when I came back and sat with him in the drawing room. When I’m finished talking, Penelope looks thoughtful for a moment, but then she just shrugs. “I wouldn’t take it too personally, Simon,” she says. “Mr. Pitch is never exactly the most friendly person.”

I figure Penelope is probably right. (She usually is, anyway.) So, I decide to stop thinking about Mr. Pitch altogether. I focus the rest of the day on planning lessons for Mordelia and working on a drawing that I’ve been meaning to finish. It’s a dragon - red, with its wings spread wide and fire blasting from its mouth. 

After dinner, Vera brings a message to the nursery that Mr. Pitch would like to see Mordelia in the drawing room. 

Penelope makes to take Mordelia downstairs, but Vera stops them before they can leave.

“Actually,” she says, “Mr. Pitch has requested that Mr. Salisbury accompany Miss Grimm.”

I look up from my drawing and scrunch up my nose. “Me? Why?”

“He didn’t say, Mr. Salisbury. He just specified that he would like it to be you who brought Mordelia to him.” 

He sure didn’t seem like he wanted to see me last night. Why would he want to see me now? I look to Penelope, but she just shrugs and gives me a look like she doesn’t know what this is about either. 

Mordelia is bouncing up and down, ready to go. When I still don’t move from my seat, she stomps over to me and tugs on my hand. “Come _on_ Mr. Salisbury,” she says. “I’ve waited _all day”_

“Alright then,” I mutter, standing up and walking with Mordelia down the steps. 

When we get to the drawing room, Mr. Pitch is sitting in the same chair as last night. He looks tired, with shadows under his eyes and his dark hair slightly disheveled. His injured ankle is still wrapped up as well. Mordelia bounds over to him and jumps into his lap. 

“Baz!” she says, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Did you bring me presents?”

He shoves her off, but I think I see a hint of a smile on his face. 

He sighs. “Yes, but only if you don’t strangle me. They’re in the box.” He points to a large parcel in the corner of the room, and Mordelia runs over to it. 

Mr. Pitch glances at me then, still standing in the doorway. 

“Come have a seat, Salisbury,” he says, sounding as bored as ever. 

I sit down, folding my hands in my lap and staring down at them. I can feel Mr. Pitch’s eyes on me. 

“I mean to ask you a few questions,” he says. “Where did you work before coming here?”

“I taught at an institution in London, sir. Mummers School for boys.”

“I’m familiar with it. It’s a school for orphans, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how long were you there?”

“Fourteen years. I was a student there for twelve and spent the last two teaching.”

If he’s taken aback by this information, he doesn’t show it. “Do you have any family, Salisbury?” he asks.

“No, sir.”

“Where did you live, then? Before going to school?”

“I lived with my father, sir. He sent me away Mummers when I was six, and I haven’t had contact with him since.”

“And your mother?”

“She died in childbirth.”

Mr. Pitch looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s attempting to solve. Just then, Mordelia comes prancing over to us with an armful of new dresses. She’d been making small exclamations in the corner this whole time as she uncovered them from the box. Now, seemingly satisfied with having looked them over, she comes to kiss Mr. Pitch on the cheek.

“They’re beautiful!” she says. “Especially the blue one, don’t you think so, Mr. Salisbury?” she holds a light blue ruffled dress up to herself and spins around. 

“Yes, it’s lovely,” I say, my cheeks heating up as Mr. Pitch continues to stare at me. 

“Baz,” Mordelia says, dropping the dresses onto a chair. “Will you come read to me? I want to show you the new books Miss Bunce brought me from America.”

Mr. Pitch’s gaze lingers on me for a moment longer, but then he turns to Mordelia. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he says. “I believe it’s time now for Mr. Salisbury to take you up to bed.”

Mordelia begins to protest, but I stand up and gather up her dresses for her, more than happy to get out of here.

“Come on, then, Mordelia,” I say. “Mr. Pitch is right, it’s time for bed.” 

She scowls at me, but complies nonetheless.

Mr. Pitch pulls her into an embrace. “Goodnight, Mordy,” he says, and then nods at me, “Salisbury.” 

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing better to do than write this fic, so here's another update. Enjoy!!

The days carry on with seemingly dozens of people coming to Watford each day to meet with Mr. Pitch. He conducts his meetings in the library, and no one is allowed to go in there while he’s in the middle of something. Still, I’m able to sneak in there sometimes when he isn’t around. The library at Watford is extraordinary. It has the most comfortable furniture of anywhere in the house, and the walls are scattered with lovely paintings and portraits of people who I suppose are Mr. Pitch’s family. Plus, there’s more books than I’ve ever seen in my life, of all different genres. I end up borrowing a few books on English history to use for Mordelia’s lessons and a few fiction volumes to read myself. 

Mr. Pitch calls Mordelia into the drawing room to see him almost every evening when he’s finished with his work, and strangely, he always requests that I come with her, though he never acts like he’s happy to see me. I think he does it so that he can ask me about how her lessons are going and what I’m teaching her. He seems to be quite invested in her education, and it’s clear that he thinks I’m doing a less than remarkable job at tutoring her. He’s constantly making little comments to Mordelia when he knows I can hear him. “It’s too bad _Mr. Salisbury_ doesn’t know Arabic. I’ll have to give you lessons on it myself sometime.” or “Have you learned _this_ equation yet? I’m surprised Mr. Salisbury hasn’t taught it to you. Perhaps he doesn’t know it.” 

I don’t know why he doesn’t just bloody tutor her himself if he’s so concerned. 

Anyways, I normally spend my evenings with him and Mordelia, discussing Mordelia’s lessons or watching while he reads to her. The shaggy black dog, who I’ve come to know is named Sir Walter, is constantly with Mr. Pitch as well, always cozying up next to his feet. Sometimes, though, like tonight, the three of us just sit around the fire and have cakes and tea and talk. (Mordelia doing most of the talking.)

“Mr. Salisbury drew a portrait of me today,” she says to Mr. Pitch. “He did one of Miss Bunce, too.”

“Fascinating,” he replies dully. “I wasn’t aware Mr. Salisbury could draw.” 

“He’s done loads of drawings,” Mordelia says. “I think he’s quite good. _Almost_ as good as me. You should show Baz your drawings, Mr. Salisbury.”

I clear my throat nervously. “Oh, um, I’m not sure that Mr. Pitch wants-”

“I’d like to see them,” he cuts me off, looking directly at me. “Why don’t you go and get them, Salisbury.” 

“Oh. Okay. Yes, sir.” I stand up and make my way upstairs to get the drawings from my room. 

I keep them in an old folder that I’ve had since I was at Mummers. I’ve always liked to draw. I used to use it as a way to clear my head and escape for a while whenever I had any free time, or when I would get into a fight with the other boys at the orphanage and needed to cool down. Most of my drawings are of made up things like dragons and wizards and heroes with swords, but I’ve done a few portraits too, of people I care about. 

I hand the folder to Mr. Pitch when I get back downstairs. “Here,” I say.

He studies them for a minute or two, carefully flipping through the pages. He makes a little humming noise at a few of them. Then he closes the folder and hands it back to me. “Well, they’re certainly nothing exceptional.” 

I take the folder back from him, embarrassed. It’s like he always has to say the most hurtful thing. I mean, fine, maybe my drawings aren’t _exceptional_ , but they’re at least pretty good. I feel like telling him off, but I suppose it’s not worth losing my job over. 

It’s still early, but I don’t think I can stand sitting here any longer and taking his jabs.

“I think I’m going to go upstairs, sir. I’m feeling quite tired suddenly,” I say. “I’ll send Miss Bunce down to take Mordelia to bed in a little while.” 

Mr. Pitch frowns and looks at me like he wants to argue, but I’m walking out the door before I can hear another snarky word from his mouth. 

*

I’ve determined that Baz (I’ve decided to start calling him Baz, just to spite him. In my head at least. I’m not sure I’d want to see his reaction if I called him Baz to his face.) is the most insufferable person I’ve ever met. I’ve started running into him around the house occasionally, as if it’s not enough to see him every night in the drawing room. He’s always walking around looking so posh and perfect with his stupid fancy clothes and never a hair out of place. It makes my blood boil. The other day I was in the kitchen, looking to see if there were any scones leftover from breakfast, and he snuck in behind me, making me jump and spill my cup of tea all down the front of my shirt. He just smirked and raised one of his ridiculously elegant eyebrows at me. “Still as graceful as ever, I see, Salisbury,” he said. I wanted to punch him in the nose. But I didn’t, of course. Because I can’t. Because he’s my employer. 

That night, I was so fed up with him that I went on a rant about it to Penelope. 

“It’s just - he’s goes around like he thinks he’s so much better than everyone. And he has absolutely no regard for anyone’s feelings but his own,” I said, pacing back and forth across Penelope’s room. “He makes me so flustered whenever I’m around him. It’s like I can’t even remember how to speak. _And_ I get this weird twisty feeling in my stomach. It’s like my whole body is opposed to being in his presence.” 

Penelope sighed and grabbed my hand to stop me from pacing. “Simon,” she said. “You can’t let him get to you like this. Just try to ignore him next time, okay?”

As if it’s ever that easy. 

“Yeah, okay,” I said, my mind still raging with the thought of him. 

*

Three or four weeks pass like this, until one morning when I wake up and sense that the house is eerily quiet. I don’t see anyone on my way down to the dining room for breakfast. No carriages passing through the gates. No one rushing in or out of the library. When I see Penelope, I ask her what’s going on. 

“You haven’t heard?” she asks, taking a bite of her toast. “Mr. Pitch has left for London. Ebb guesses that he’ll be gone for at least two weeks. He’s visiting some friends of his from school.”

“Two weeks?” I nearly drop my scone. “I didn’t know he had any friends in London. Who are they?”

“Oh, they came to Watford for a visit about a year ago, after I’d first started working here. There’s Mr. Pitch’s cousin, Dev Grimm. And then there’s Niall Canterbury, Phillipa Stainton, and Miss Agatha Wellbelove of course.” 

Penelope leans in and whispers, even though there’s no one around to overhear her, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Mr. Pitch quite fancies Miss Wellbelove, and intends to court her in London. They were all here around Christmastime last year, and I remember Miss Wellbelove was absolutely stunning. She wore a pure white dress and pleated mistletoe into her long blond hair. She and Mr. Pitch couldn’t keep their eyes off each other.”

I feel something coil in my chest when I hear her words. 

Of course a man as perfect and handsome as Baz Pitch would have a beautiful girl like this supposed _Agatha Wellbellove._ It makes perfect sense, I’m just not sure why it feels so wrong to me. Or why it matters to me at all. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update :)

It’s been a week since Baz left for London. I’d forgotten how quiet and empty Watford Hall is without his presence. The days here have been gloomy and rainy, winter slowly fading into spring. 

I don’t know why, but I feel almost hurt that he left so suddenly, without saying goodbye or anything. Like I said, I don’t know why. It’s not like we’re friends. It’s not like he even likes me, or thinks about me at all… 

The day after he left, Mordelia was so miserable that I decided to cancel her lessons and let her do as she pleased. I saw while he was here how much she adored him and how crushed she was after he left. I can’t help but feel sorry for her. First she lost her parents (I’m still not sure when, exactly, or how. There seems to be an unspoken agreement around here that the subject isn’t to be brought up.) and now the closest relation she has left, her brother, can’t be bothered to spend more than a few weeks with her. I think she misses Sir Walter, too, who accompanied Baz to London. She would often sprawl out on the floor and pat him while Baz read to her in the evenings. 

It’s afternoon now, and the day outside is overcast and drizzly. With Mordelia’s lessons finished earlier in the morning, Penelope is working with her on some knitting in the nursery. I’m in my room, engaged with a drawing that I started a couple days before. It’s a portrait of no one in particular. I’ve already sketched the outline of a face, with no intention of how it will turn out, and am just now starting on the details. I darken the eyebrows until they’re aristocratic enough, but not too heavy, then fill the lips into a lovely pout. 

After an hour or so of working at this, Vera brings a message that dinner is ready, and I stretch and shake out my hand, then head downstairs. 

Penelope bumps my shoulder with hers as I walk into the dining room and asks why I look so down.

“I thought you’d be happy with Mr. Pitch out of the way, you complain about him enough,” she teases. 

“I am happy,” I respond, a bit too quickly, maybe, because Penelope raises her eyebrows at me. “It’s just the weather. It feels like it’s been raining for ages. Besides, I don’t complain about him that much.” 

“Mm… you do a bit. I’d say your rants about him have become _at least_ fifty percent of our total conversation. I’ve even considered giving you a quota for how much you’re allowed to talk about him.”

I look at her with offense. “Penny! I’m _not_ that bad.”

She smiles at me and squeezes my hand. “I’m only kidding, Simon. You’re still my friend, even if you do talk my ears off about Mr. Pitch.” 

Come nightfall, I can’t fall asleep. It’s been this way the past few nights, actually. With the changing weather, my room suddenly feels too hot. I shove my blankets onto the floor and try to get comfortable by burying my face in my pillow, but it’s of no use. I eventually get up and walk over to the window, staring out at the moon and the trees and the empty road. 

I can’t help my mind from wandering to what Baz must be doing right now. Probably out dancing or staying at some cozy London inn with Agatha Wellbelove hanging on his arm. 

The next morning, the smell of tarts and cakes being baked fills the entire house. Everyone seems to be rushing around tidying the rooms or setting about vases of flowers and fresh candles. 

There’s a message from London. Mr. Pitch is returning to Watford early. And he’s bringing his friends. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it :)

Agatha Wellbelove is just as Penelope described her: stunning. 

The group arrived around sunset last night. I could see them from my window as they came down the road. Baz was riding his black horse and Miss Wellbelove rode right beside him on a white one. She was pale as snow, with soft, beautiful features and milky blond hair blowing behind her in the wind. She and Baz looked like they fit perfectly together, like the sun and the moon. The others rode behind them in a carriage.

I stayed in my room last night, not exactly eager to be introduced to Baz’s company. 

The next morning, however, Mordelia begged to be introduced to the party. She was eventually allowed, and it was requested once again that I be the one to take her into the drawing room. 

“ _Why?”_ I groan to Penelope. “Why is it always me? I know he doesn’t actually _want_ to see me. You could just as easily accompany Mordelia downstairs.” 

She just gives me a sympathetic look. “You’ll be fine, Simon.” 

I remind Mordelia to use her best manners in front of the guests as we walk down the stairs.

“I know, I know,” she tugs on my hand to get me to walk faster. 

She’s wearing the blue dress that Baz brought for her and her hair is curled into bouncy ringlets. I’m wearing my best clothes, too, but that isn’t really saying much. These clothes looked decent enough when I bought them a couple years ago, but they’re faded now, and a bit too snug on me. 

Luckily, we’re able to slip in while the guests have already situated themselves and are amidst conversation, so we don’t have to make a formal entrance. 

There’s a man with thick dark hair standing by the fire and gesturing with his hands as he talks. Mordelia runs over to him and when he sees her he lifts her up and spins her around. “Mordelia, sweetheart!” he says, kissing her cheeks. 

She grimaces. “Ugh. Put me down, Dev.” 

“Oh, alright,” he sets her down gently. “It’s good to see you, darling. How have you been?”

Mordelia begins to tell him an elaborate story. 

I look around awkwardly, but no one seems to have even noticed me. Sitting on a sofa near where Mordelia and Dev (Mr. Grimm?) are talking, there’s two young ladies. The one I recognize immediately as Miss Wellbelove. She’s sitting with her hands folded in her lap and a passive expression on her face. She has on a white and rose coloured dress, her blond hair perfectly parted down the middle and falling past her shoulders. The woman next to her is a bit shorter, with dull brown curls and a gaudy pink dress. She’s talking animatedly to a man sitting across from them in a chair. He’s a smallish man with a pale complexion and wispy reddish-brown hair. I don’t see Baz anywhere. I think about turning to leave. No one’s noticed me, and Mordelia seems to be entertaining herself with her cousin. 

I turn around just as Baz saunters into the room with a drink hanging on his hand. He scans around the room, then locks eyes with me and grabs my arm, pulling me towards him. He’s all at once so close that I can feel his breath on my face. I stare up at him (he’s at least three inches taller than me), my mouth hanging open, taken aback by his sudden proximity. 

“Salisbury,” he says. A strand of black hair falls onto his face. 

I close my mouth and swallow. “Mr. Pitch?”

He leans back a little, but keeps his hand on my arm. “You’re probably wondering why I called you in here.” 

“Um…”

“Miss Bunce does an excellent job with Mordelia, but I’ve noticed my sister has a rather special attachment to you. I’d like you to stay in here and keep an eye on her, make sure she behaves herself in front of my guests.”

I nod. “Of course, sir. I’ll be happy to.”

He looks away from my face to the spot where his hand is touching me, then lets go. 

He starts to walk away, but then glances back at me. “And Salisbury,” he says. “Try not to get in the way.” 

I end up sitting on a sofa, listening to Miss Phillipa Stainton for most of the day. Miss Stainton spent the morning flirting with all three of the gentlemen, but as none of them seemed particularly interested in her, she’s now taken an avid affection towards me. 

She’s telling me a story of how last spring she was courted by two different men, but turned them both away because one was rich, but horribly ugly and the other was handsome, but a poor farmer. 

I’m mostly nodding along, not really listening because I can’t keep my eyes from wandering over to the other sofa where Baz is sitting with Miss Wellbelove. She’s clinging to his arm and he’s gazing down at her, talking in a low voice. They’ve been like this all day, hardly talking to anyone but each other. I keep telling myself that it doesn’t bother me, because why _should_ it bother me? What do I care about Baz Pitch’s love life? And yet, every time I look at them something inside me feels _wrong._ I shake my head in an attempt to clear it and turn back to Miss Stainton. 

The next few days are pretty much all the same. The group mostly sits around in the drawing room, but they occasionally go out for walks or other excursions or stay in their respective rooms. Mordelia always wants to go see them as soon as she’s done with her lessons. She mostly talks to Mr. Grimm and Mr. Canterbury. She tries to pester Baz, but Miss Wellbelove seems to have taken a strong dislike towards her. The other day, Mordelia sat right between Baz and Miss Wellbelove on the sofa, and Miss Wellbelove looked at her like she was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. 

Miss Stainton usually gravitates towards me, and Mr. Canterbury has been quite friendly with me also. Overall, it wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to watch Baz and Miss Wellbelove fondle each other all day. She’s constantly touching him and giggling and calling him _Basil_ in her pretty, posh accent, and he’s always giving her these long, cool looks. And I still don’t know why it makes me so agitated. 

Today Baz played a piece on the violin for the group, and Miss Wellbelove stood beside him and sang. Baz had this serious, concentrated look on his face while he played. His eyelids were shut halfway and his lips drawn into a tight line. The way he looked gave me that twisted feeling in my stomach again. 

It’s evening now, and most of the group have retired to their rooms. I’m slowly making my way up to my own room. I feel exhausted, and I’m staring down at my feet as I climb up the steps when I bump right into Baz. He’s holding a drink in his hand (His face is flushed, so I think he’s had a few.) and when I knock into him a bit of it spills out onto his shirt. He gives me a deadly glare. 

“Can’t you watch where you’re going, Salisbury?” he snaps. He shoves my chest, meaning to just push past me, I think, but it makes me stumble backwards and fall to the bottom of the stairs. 

Luckily, it isn’t an extremely far fall, but it still hurts. I land on my side with a groan. It doesn’t feel like anything’s broken, but I’m definitely bruised up quite a bit. 

Baz rushes down the steps and kneels in front of me. His face looks like he’s seen a ghost. “Oh God! I’m sorry, Salisbury. I didn’t mean-”

I growl and shove him away from me.

He steps back, but he still looks concerned. His eyebrows are drawn together and he watches me closely as I stand up. “Are you okay?” he asks, softer than he’s ever spoken to me.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’d like to go up to my room, if you don’t mind.”

He nods, and lets me go without another word. 

When I get upstairs, I slam my door shut and fall face first onto my bed. My whole body feels hot, and don’t remember when I started crying, but my cheeks are suddenly wet with tears. I hate him. He pushed me down the stairs! I can’t believe him! Just when I thought he couldn’t get any worse, he pushed me down the bloody stairs. Fine, maybe it was an accident, but still! He’s unbearable. I don’t think I’ll be able to hold myself back if I have to see his stupid face again. I want to hit him and kiss him and shove my hands into his hair and-

I sit up. _What am I thinking?_

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

I make the excuse of being too sore from my injuries to join the company the next day. It isn’t a lie - I really am pretty sore. I have at least nine different bruises. But also I just don’t think I can stand to spend another day watching Baz with Agatha Wellbelove. 

I thought about it last night. I stayed up almost the whole night thinking about it. 

About how much I’d like to kiss him.

About how the way Miss Wellbelove touches him and teases him makes me so upset because _I’d_ like to be the one touching and teasing him. 

I buried my face in my pillow and cried until my head hurt last night. He makes me so mad. And it’s all completely useless because he’ll never feel the same way. He doesn’t like me. No, it’s worse than that - he doesn’t _anything_ me. I’m nothing to him. He clearly adores Miss Wellbelove and couldn’t give less of a toss about me. 

Anyways, I’m fine now. I really am. I’m staying up in my room today and working on my drawing and willing myself not to think about him anymore. 

I’ve just sat down at my desk and taken out the portrait I’ve been working on when Penelope knocks on my door. 

She pokes her head in. “Brought you breakfast,” she says. 

I give her a small smile. “You didn’t have to. I’m sure Vera would have done it.”

She shrugs. “I offered to.”

She comes inside and places the tray of food on my desk, then sits herself down on my bed. 

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

I shrug.

She looks a bit apprehensive. “You know… I don’t think he did it on purpose, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I know,” I say quietly. 

“Simon,” she says, leaning forward. “Are you really alright?”

She’s staring at me intensely through her glasses. I have to look away. I can already feel my eyes welling up again. 

I take a deep breath. “Penny… I have feelings for someone. Someone who I shouldn’t have feelings for.”

“What?” she says. “Who?”

“I-” I can’t bring myself to say it. 

She’s quiet for a moment, and then, “It’s not… well, you don’t fancy Miss Wellbelove, do you, Simon?”

“What?” I look at her, shaking my head. “No. Not Miss Wellbelove.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. “But it’s not-” she covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh my word! _Simon._ It’s Mr. Pitch, isn’t it?”

I bite my lip and nod. My hands are shaking. 

“Oh, Si.” She walks over and wraps her arms around my shoulders. I’m crying again. I _really_ didn’t want to start crying in front of her. 

“When did you work that out?” she asks softly, pulling away.

“Just last night,” I mumble, wiping at my cheeks and trying to steady my breathing. “But I think I’ve felt it for a while.”

She nods and purses her lips. “It’ll be okay, Simon.”

“How?” I ask her. “He’s going to marry Miss Wellbelove.” 

“Perhaps,” she says. “But perhaps not. You can’t be certain that it isn’t mutual.”

I huff. “I’m pretty certain.”

She takes my hand and forces me to look at her eyes. “It’ll be okay.”

Penelope stays with me for a while before she has to go help with Mordelia. Once she leaves, I start to actually work on my drawing. 

It feels good to have told her about Baz. I wasn’t sure how she would react, but in the moment I felt like I had to tell her. I’ve come to trust Penny more than anyone I know here (probably more than anyone I know, period), and I had to get it off my chest to _somebody,_ so it made sense for it to be her. 

I work on the drawing for hours. I work mindlessly, not really thinking about what I’m doing, just glad to have something to do with my hands. I’m trying not to think about anything. I haven’t really even looked at it, but I can sense that it’s just about finished when there’s another knock at the door. 

Vera comes in with tea and a plate-full of sour cherry scones. 

“Mr. Pitch mentioned how much you like these,” she says, setting the scones down for me. “He ordered that a fresh batch be baked this afternoon to be sent up for you.”

I gape at her. “He did?”

She nods. “Cook Pritchard was a bit worked up about it, what with all the guests to cater for, but Mr. Pitch was very insistent.” 

I’m still gaping as Vera wishes me to feel better and turns to leave. 

I slather some butter onto a scone and take a huge bite, sighing contentedly. 

I can’t believe Baz would go to all that trouble just to give me some scones. He probably just feels guilty about what happened last night. Still, I feel myself falling even harder for him as I finish off the plate. 

I look down at my drawing, still sitting on the desk. It’s Baz. I drew him without even realizing what I was doing. It’s undoubtedly him. Thick waves of black hair, long nose, fierce eyes, perfect, pouty lips. 

Later in the evening, just as I’m preparing for bed, there’s yet a third knock at my door. 

I open it, and Baz is standing in the hall.

I step back. I can already feel my face going red. “Hello, sir.”

He looks pained, almost. “Salisbury,” he says. “I wanted to apologize. I was out of sorts last night, and I didn’t mean to cause any violence. I hope you’re doing better tonight.”

I’m a bit shocked. I don’t think he’s ever said anything so nice to me. “It’s fine, sir. It was an accident. I’m doing much better now.” 

He nods. “Good. Well, goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.” 

I lean my back against the door after he leaves, grinning and blushing stupidly. 

The morning after this I’m still quite injured, but I feel well enough to go down to breakfast. I can hear Ebb talking to someone before I enter the dining room. 

“Yes, they left for her parents’ residence just an hour ago, and intend to tell them the news when they arrive. What a beautiful couple! And have you seen the new carriage he’s bought for her? It’s lovely - it’s sitting outside near the gates just now, waiting to be used for the honeymoon.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh I'm sorry for this. It'll get better soon!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go!! There will be more coming soon :) I'm trying to finish this before I have to go back to college, lol.

I’m walking outside in the orchard. The sun has set. The day passed like a dream, or probably more like a nightmare. 

Wedding plans being prepared. Talk of the happy couple all around the house. Baz and all of his guests were gone when I woke up. He and Miss Wellbelove were off to the residence of Doctor and Lady Wellbelove, just outside Birmingham, and the others were on the way back to London. 

I knew this was coming, but that doesn’t mean that I was really prepared for it. I _did_ know this was coming. But after last night, after he came and apologized to me, well, I thought… 

I don’t know what I was thinking. 

Penelope tried to comfort me today, but there was nothing she could say that would change the facts. Nothing that would bring him back here and make him want me instead of Miss Wellbelove. Eventually I told Penny that I needed some air and came out here. 

The day was sunny, but the clouds are coming in now and it looks like it’ll likely rain. 

I’m not crying anymore, but my eyes are still itchy and my face feels raw. I’m not thinking about it. I’m not thinking. My hands are stuffed into my trouser pockets and I’m walking over the cobble path in between rows of apple and plum trees. 

I’m not thinking about _him,_ at least, but I suppose I am thinking about the fact that I’ll need to find a new job, because I sure as hell can’t stay here once Agatha Wellbelove becomes a permanent resident. I don’t think I’d be able to bear it. 

I could put up another advertisement in the paper, but it might take weeks for anyone to respond. Maybe I’ll pack up my things tonight and in the morning just start walking - see where the road takes me. I’ve earned enough money here that I could survive for a month or so on my own. It hurts to think about leaving Watford, about leaving Penelope and Mordelia and everyone I’ve met here. Watford has felt more like home to me than anywhere else I’ve ever been. I have to leave, though. As much as it’ll hurt to leave, it would hurt much worse to stay. 

I feel a couple drops of rain hit my face. I turn around, ready to head back inside for the night, when I hear someone coming on the path. The footsteps are coming closer, but I can’t yet make out who it is. 

The person turns the corner, and they’re still partially hidden behind some trees, plus the sky has begun to darken, but I think it’s… 

It’s Baz!

I halt where I am for a moment, but then I come to my senses and dash behind some foliage. I am _not_ prepared to talk to him right now. What’s he doing back here, anyway? Isn’t he supposed to be off celebrating with the Wellbeloves? 

He keeps walking my way. The moonlight catches on his copper skin and his black hair is falling around his face exquisitely. He looks deep in thought. 

He walks past me, and I let out a silent sigh of relief, but then he stops in his tracks. 

“Lovely night, isn’t it, Salisbury?”

My breath hitches. 

I slowly step out onto the path, trying and likely failing to look like I wasn’t just hiding from him. 

“I- I didn’t think you’d be back so soon, sir.”

He turns around and stares at me. His expression is much softer than it usually is when he looks at me - it’s unsettling. 

“Take a walk with me?” he asks. 

“It’s beginning to rain, sir,” I say, stupidly. Of course he can see that it’s raining. 

“Would you rather go inside?”

I shake my head, then take a couple steps forward until I’m at his side. 

We walk a few paces in silence. The rain isn’t coming down very hard yet, but I can see the droplets begin to run down Baz’s cheeks and cling to his jaw. 

“What do you think of the new carriage?” he asks me after a moment. “Agatha will look quite pretty in it, won’t she?” 

His words feel like a punch to the gut. I can’t do this. I can’t talk about _her._

“Yes, sir. It’s a beautiful carriage.” I force out. 

“Agatha, she thinks that Mordelia ought to be sent away to school, you know. In which case your services wouldn’t be needed here any longer,” he continues. 

I nod. “Right.” I think I might be crying now, but at least Baz probably won’t be able to tell with the rain on my face.

“I could write you a recommendation for another job, of course. Your work here hasn’t been by any means _remarkable,_ but you’ve been adequate enough.” 

I swallow, hoping my voice doesn’t crack when I speak. “Thank you, sir. I would appreciate that.” 

Baz stops walking and turns to face me. He’s looking at me like I’m being especially stupid.

“Simon,” he says. My head jerks up and I meet his eyes. He’s never called me Simon before. “Do you really think I’m going to marry Miss Wellbelove?” he asks quietly. 

“I… what do you mean, sir?”

“Simon.” I watch the way his lips form my name, then look up to his eyes. Grey and ardent, with raindrops sticking to his eyelashes. He takes my hands (His are wet, and cold. Mine are trembling a bit.) and tugs me towards him. “You’re a fool,” he says, and then his mouth is on mine. 

I freeze at first, but then his hands are on my waist, pulling me closer, and I melt into him. 

I’ve never kissed anyone before. Is this a good kiss?

Baz’s lips are cold. His hair is tickling my cheeks. I place my hands on his chest, just to have something to do with them. 

After a moment, though, I shove him away from me. I step back, breathless. “Sir,” I say. “What are you doing? What about Miss Wellbelove?” 

He runs his tongue across his lips. “She’s in Birmingham, with her parents. I escorted her this morning.”

“Why aren’t you with her?”

“Why would I be? I’d rather be with you.”

“You intend to marry her.”

“No. I don’t. I never did.” 

“I don’t understand, sir.” Is this a joke? Is he mocking me on purpose?

He sighs like I’m exasperating him. “In case you didn't notice, you’re exceedingly dim-witted. I needed to make you jealous. You never would have figured it out otherwise.” 

“Figured out what?”

“This. Us.” He makes a gesture between us with his hand. “You do like me, don’t you, Salisbury?” 

“I- _yes._ ” I feel my cheeks start to colour. “But that doesn’t- I mean I don’t-”

He raises an eyebrow. “And you only figured that out once you saw me together with Miss Wellbelove, correct?” 

“Well, _yes,_ but…but how did you even know that? And so you were just using her, then? You just used her to get to me and then left her?” I run my hand through my hair, glaring at him.

“Trust me, Salisbury, she wasn’t all too upset about it.” 

“How would you know?” I spit back. “You think you know all about other peoples’ feelings, but have you ever thought that you might actually just be hurting people?”

He narrows his eyes and speaks slowly, like he’s talking to a child. “My courtship with Miss Wellbelove was a careful arrangement composed by her parents. They’re very concerned that their daughter marry into a high position. However, I lately sent a rumour their way that my inheritance is only half of what it truly is, and upon hearing this both they and Miss Wellbelove herself were quite eager to abandon any intentions of a marriage between us.” 

I stare at him. I think I’m trying to piece together everything he’s saying. I think I’m trying to convince myself that this is real. 

I shake my head. “You’re horrible, you know. I thought you were going to marry her.”

“I know,” he says. “Can you forgive me?”

“I don’t know,” I say, but I step towards him again. “You really like me?”

He takes my hands again, and his voice is soft. “Salisbury, I’ve wanted you almost since the first night I saw you.”

“Call me Simon,” I blurt out. 

The corners of his mouth turn upwards, and I blush. “I liked it when you called me Simon.”

“Okay.” He kisses my knuckles gently. “Only if you call me Baz.”

“Okay,” I breathe. “Baz.”

“Simon.” 

I’m kissing him again, and I have my fingers tangled in his wet hair and I can’t think about anything other than how good this feels. 

The rain starts to get heavier and we eventually break apart, both of us sopping wet and out of breath. He clutches my hand and we run down the path and back towards the house. We hurry in through the front door. Once inside, he turns to me again and reaches for my curls, gently shaking out the wetness with his hands. We’re laughing. I grab the collar of his shirt and pull him closer until our noses are touching. 

There are footsteps entering the foyer and then: “Oh, my.” 

I break away from him so fast I nearly fall backwards. 

Ebb is standing before us and looking quite shocked. 

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Hope you like it- I really appreciate all your comments and kudos <3 There will be one more chapter after this :)

Baz and I glance at each other - me, horrified; him, looking as cool and collected as ever. Ebb is looking back and forth between us, her mouth ajar. 

After a second or so of this uneasiness, Baz grabs me by the arm and, muttering half-hearted apologies to Ebb, practically drags me past her and up the staircase.

I’m a bit panicked over what Ebb must be thinking. I _hope_ she doesn’t think that Baz is still engaged with Miss Wellbelove - that this is some sort of dishonest affair… 

Baz seems completely unbothered by it. He’s acting like he does this every day. It makes me wonder just how often he _has_ done this. Does this actually mean anything to him? Or does he have some sort of motive for using me like he used Miss Wellbelove? 

Baz clears his throat. “Would you like to stay with me?” he asks softly, drawing me from my thoughts. We’ve arrived on the third floor and are standing in the hall between our respective rooms. Baz is looking more hesitant than I’ve ever seen him. 

I decide to let my worries about his intentions go for the time being. 

“Would you like me to?” I say. 

He rolls his eyes. “I just asked you, Salisbury.”

“Then, yes.” I take his hand and grin.

He nods. “Alright. Come on, then.” 

Baz’s room is bigger than mine. Though I suppose that should’ve been expected - he is the owner of the house. It has soft red carpets, a bed with red and black quilts and gargoyles on the posts, a couple of sofas, and shelves of books lining the walls. 

I watch as Baz goes to light the fire. His clothes are dripping and clinging to his body. His hair is messy from how much I’d been touching it. I can’t believe I didn’t realize how I felt about him sooner. There’s suddenly a list in my head of all the things I’d like to do to him, or do with him. Starting with kissing him again. 

He gets the fire going, and we change out of our wet clothes. Baz insists that I wear a pair of his pyjamas, even though I could easily get my own from across the hall. Not that I’m complaining. Although the trousers aren’t a perfect fit (Baz is taller than me and slimmer in the waist), his pyjamas are still much more comfortable than mine, plus they smell like him. The pair he gives me are silky and red with gold stripes, and he takes a similar set of dark blue for himself. 

He changes in his en suite while I change in the room. I’m grinning when he walks back in. He raises an eyebrow at me, then goes to sit in front of the fire. “Come on,” he says. “You’ll get cold.” 

I sit down next to him and fix my eyes on his profile. He looks soft and young like this: sitting on the ground in pyjamas, hair falling into his eyes and without the usual scowl on his face. 

I take his hand and lace our fingers together loosely, rubbing my thumb along his skin. He looks over to me with his eyes widened.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted this?” I ask him. 

“I couldn’t have,” he says. “I needed to be certain how you would react. I wasn’t even sure that you fancied men, at first.” He draws his eyebrows together a bit. “You do fancy men, don’t you?”

I look down and shrug. “I fancy you,” I say. “Suppose I never gave it much thought, until I met you.” 

He’s quiet, and when I look back up at him his eyebrows are drawn more tightly. He’s giving me that look again like I’m puzzling him. 

“Do you?” I ask, “Fancy men?”

“Yes, of course I do.” 

“Have you done this before, then?” 

“No.”

“Really? Why not?” 

He sighs. “I don’t know. I never really wanted to, before you.” 

That surprises me. It also makes me smile a bit, knowing I’m not just one of countless young men he’s lured up to his room. Maybe this _does_ mean something to him. 

I squeeze his hand, then lift my other hand and bring it to the back of his neck. I pull him towards me until our foreheads press together, then close my eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

He kisses me. His lips are warmer now than they were outside in the rain. Baz’s lips are so smooth - I’m sure mine feel chapped and rough in comparison. I move my hands into his hair - it’s mostly dry now, and feels feathery as my fingers run through it. He moans softly when I tug on a few strands. His tongue brushes over my lips, and he tastes of peppermint. He feels like fire, like magic. He’s all-consuming. 

*

I wake up the next morning in Baz’s room, on the sofa, with a face-full of thick black hair. He’s pressed between me and the back of the sofa, my arm flung around his waist and one of my legs stuck in between his. 

I sit up a little and disentangle my arms from around him to rub my eyes. 

I kissed Baz last night until my mouth was sore. I traced my lips along his jaw and his neck and his collarbones - tasting him; breathing him in. He laid on his back next to the fire with me mostly on top of him and kissed me slowly and lazily until we were both so sleepy we could hardly open our eyes. And then he just held me - let me rest my head on his chest and carded his fingers through my curls, occasionally murmuring _Simon_ and pressing a kiss to the top of my head. 

Baz groans now and rolls around to face me, his eyes still shut. “Why are you up so early?” he mumbles. His voice sounds tired and scratchy. 

“Mordelia’s lessons,” I say. “Penelope will be wondering where I am.” 

He shakes his head. “They’re canceled. You’re staying with me today.” 

“Baz, I can’t just-”

He opens his eyes and pulls me back down. “Yes. You can. I want to show you around Watford.”

I look at him, confused. “I’ve seen Watford. I’ve lived here nearly five months.”

“You haven’t seen everything.”

Baz has Vera bring a tray of food up to his room for breakfast, and we sit on the floor in front of his bed to eat. He hands me a plate, which I pile with eggs and hashbrowns and sausages. The food at Watford is unlike anywhere else. I always feel like I can’t get enough of it. All Baz takes is some toast and a mug of coffee. It’s no wonder he’s so thin. 

I lift a big forkful of hashbrowns to my mouth, and a bit falls off the fork and lands on my thigh. 

Baz grimaces. “You’re a disaster,” he mutters, taking a cloth napkin and wiping the food from my (his) pyjamas. Then he lifts the napkin and wipes at the corner of my mouth. 

I swat his hand away, swallowing. “Baz,” I say, “What are we going to tell everyone? About us? Ebb already saw us…”

He leans back against his bed. “I’ll announce that my engagement to Miss Wellbelove has been broken off and order the wedding preparations halted. No one has to know about us, if you’d prefer.”

I bite my lip. “It’s not that I don’t want anyone to know, it’s just…Well, what will people think?”

“It may not be well-liked, all around,” Baz says, spooning more sugar into his coffee. “Like I said, we don’t have to tell anyone.”

“I’d like to tell Penelope,” I say. 

“Alright.”

“Perhaps not everyone, though- not right away, at least.”

“Alright,” he says again, and leans over to kiss the mole on the side of my neck. “Whatever you’d like.” 

After breakfast, we wash and get dressed, and Baz goes downstairs to arrange that plans for the wedding be put to an end and that Mordelia be kept in the nursery with Penelope for the day. Then, he takes me into the library. I’m not sure what he expects to show me, but I’m not about to protest spending the day with him, even if it is just to walk around Watford. 

He leads me to a bookcase towards the back of the room that’s filled with old, dusty volumes, some of which look like they’re falling apart. Baz pulls a thickly bound book from the top shelf, then reaches into the empty space where it was and pushes some sort of lever. The entire bookcase moves! It actually turns, revealing an opening in the wall behind it. 

I jump back when it happens and feel my eyes go wide. “What- how did you do that?”

“Magic,” Baz smirks at me. “Come on.” He takes my hand and I follow him into the hidden chamber. 

“This was my mother’s private office,” he says as we walk inside. 

It’s a cozy looking room, with a large wooden desk, a lovely blue and grey carpet, and a few bookcases looking very neatly put together. 

“She used to let me stay in here with her while she worked and look at her books.” 

I brush my fingers over the spines of some books, scanning their titles. “She must’ve been good,” I say. “Your mum.” 

He nods, giving me a rare smile. “She hung the moon.” 

Baz shows me some of his favorite volumes from his mother’s collection. He tells me about her, too. She lived and worked here at Watford as a writer, but she also had a mind for politics. He says that she would keep tea and sweets in the drawer of her desk for him to take whenever he liked. 

She died in a fire when Baz was five. It was set accidentally in the eastern wing of the house, and the damage from it has since been repaired. His mother came back to get him from the nursery, but couldn’t get out in time herself. 

It’s difficult to watch him talk about it, knowing there’s not much I can say to comfort him. I’ve never been any good with words. I can tell he still feels like it’s his fault that she died, and I can tell that it’s hard for him to be here, at Watford, where it happened. 

We walk around the rest of the library and he tells me about the portraits of his family members, previous occupants of Watford. There’s a picture of a man with slicked back white hair with a pretty dark-haired woman beside him.

“My father,” Baz says. “And Daphne, Mordelia’s mother. They both fell away to illness not long after Mordelia’s birth. Father and I were never very close, but it was still a dreadful occurrence. And I know I haven’t been the best guardian for Mordelia.”

I squeeze his hand. “Not true,” I say. “Mordelia is always so excited to see you.” 

Baz frowns. “You’re delusional, Salisbury. She only likes that I bring her gifts and distract her from her lessons and routine.” 

“You haven’t heard her talk about you,” I argue. “She looks up to you, adores you. She loves you.” 

He shakes his head “You’re impossible.” 

He takes me outside, eventually, and we walk the grounds. It astonishes me how smart Baz is. He seems to know everything about the history of Watford from the time it was built until now. He tells me that it was a school, originally. The Pitches bought the property six generations back and converted it into a private residence. 

We walk through the gardens, holding hands when no one is around to see. He asks me more about my past, too, before I came to Watford. I tell him that I don’t remember many details of living with my father. I remember that things with him were _bad,_ but not exactly _how_ or _why._ The conditions at the orphanage weren’t the best either; there was never enough food or warm clothes, and the older boys were quite cruel to me when I was young, but I was at least able to get an education. Baz listens to me closely as I talk about it, sometimes asking questions or rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand. 

After a while, he takes me to a flattened section of grass near the edge of the woods, and we sit down with our backs against a tree. 

He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close to him, kissing the side of my head. 

“I used to play football here, sometimes,” he says. “Dev and Niall would come when we had breaks from school and we’d put on matches.” 

“You don’t anymore?” I say. 

“Not nearly as often. We don’t have as much time together these days.”

“Will you teach me someday? I’ve never played football.”

He half-smiles, looking out at the field. “I’ll consider it.” 

“Baz…”

He turns to me, eyebrow raised. 

“Um. Just….” I can’t get my mouth to form the right words, and he’s staring at me so seriously that it’s hard to think. “Why are you doing all this?” I say eventually. “Why me? I mean, you could be with anyone you wanted. Why are you bothering with me?”

“Simon.” I hate it when he looks at me like this- like I’m not catching on to something that’s completely obvious. “I thought I’d made it quite clear that I don’t _want_ anyone else. I want to be with you.” 

I must look unconvinced, because he shifts then, and his face softens. “Simon, the night that we met, when you helped me after my fall- well, I wasn’t sure that I could bear going back to Watford that night. I’d been feeling miserable to begin with, and the thought of Watford - so isolated out here from the rest of society and with so many painful memories - just the thought of it made me feel hopeless. But I knew I had to come see Mordelia- it had been weeks since I’d seen her. I was riding that night with all of these thoughts in my mind, weighing me down with anguish. But when I fell from my horse, and then saw you standing over me, I swear I thought you were a fairy at first, or an angel. You’re like the sun, Simon. You were a light when all that was in my heart before you was darkness.” 

“Baz…” I whisper. I don’t know how to respond, honestly. I never could have imagined that he saw me like that. Part of me can’t help but think him insane _for_ seeing me like that. 

I come to my senses.

“I’m not the sun, Baz,” I say. “And I’m not an angel. I’m just me. I don’t know how you expect to be happy with me when you’re making me out to be something more than what I am.” 

He sighs. “Why are we arguing about this, Simon? Do you not want this?”

I push my hand through my hair. “ _No_ , it’s- I mean, _yes,_ I want this. I just don’t see why someone like you would want someone like me. I don’t have anything to offer you. And I think you’ll realize eventually that whatever it is you think you see in me isn’t all that you’ve imagined it to be.”

“Simon Salisbury.” He lifts my chin with his hand and places the other behind my neck. “I’m not _imagining_ anything. Can’t you see that I want you _,_ just as you are?” 

He’s staring at me intensely, like he wants me to believe him. And I do want to believe him. I really do. 

I kiss him, pushing him back with my mouth, trying to push out all the thoughts that are clouding my mind. 

He wants me. I guess that’s enough, for now. 


	12. Epilogue

Nearly six months have passed since that first night that Baz kissed me. 

Those first few days, those first moments that we had together- they seemed almost too good to be true. It still seems too good to be true, sometimes. Being with him. Knowing that he wants to be with me. 

He’s impossibly handsome. Every time I look at him I swear my heart beats faster, like it’s ready to jump out of my chest and cling to him. When I think about kissing him, it’s like I need it more than air; more than life itself. And, yes, we still argue, but he’s also incredibly patient with me. He doesn’t push me when I want to take things slow or when I don’t feel like talking about something. He never pressures me to go further than I’m comfortable. 

I still feel sometimes like I’m not good enough for him. A while ago, for instance, he was insisting on buying me this extensive collection of posh clothes and watches and shoes. I came into my room one day and saw them all laid out in my wardrobe, fresh from the shop. 

“ _Baz_ ,” I’d said, my mind spinning with how much it must have all cost him. “I can’t keep all this.” 

He couldn’t understand why I was upset. Baz has always had money at his disposal; he doesn’t know what it’s like to feel like a charity case. He eventually did agree to send the clothes back, though. At least, all of them except for a certain grey suit, which he said I would look “dashing” in and he “couldn’t possibly allow for it to be returned.” 

Anyways, he may not always understand how I’m feeling, but he always listens to me, and does his best to assure me that I shouldn’t worry about not being good enough. I think he really means it, too. I think he really does care about me. And for the most part, I don’t worry so much anymore. 

And so, when he asked me to marry him, I didn’t have a doubt in my mind. 

We told Penelope first, and then Mordelia. Penelope had been the first person I’d told when Baz and I first got together, too. It’s impossible to keep a secret from her. She’d hugged me then, and told me she would always support me, no matter what. And when I told her we were engaged, she was ecstatic. 

“Oh, Simon!” she pulled me into her arms, beaming at me. Then she made me sit down and tell her all the details: how he’d asked me, what we were planning for the wedding, who the guests would be. 

Mordelia hardly glanced up from her book when Baz told her. “I always knew you fancied Mr. Salisbury,” she said, boredly turning a page. 

Later, though, when she and I were working on her history lessons in the nursery, she climbed into my lap and gave me a tight hug. “I’m glad Baz is marrying you,” she said. “He’s happier ever since you came here.” 

It took some time for me to feel ready, but we eventually announced the news to Ebb and to all the servants and everyone at Watford. It was taken surprisingly well. I think everyone was just excited to have a wedding to prepare for. Invitations were sent to various family members and friends of Baz’s, but overall we decided to keep the party fairly small and intimate. 

*

Now, about three weeks before the wedding is to take place, a letter has arrived. It’s from a Lady Ruth Salisbury of Rosenveil Hall, written on fine parchment, and addressed to me. 

I don’t know what to make of it, at first. I read it over and over until the words are practically etched into my memory. Lady Ruth Salisbury: my grandmother, my mother’s mother, is writing to me. She writes that she’d been trying to find out about me for years. She had lost contact with my mother when she married my father and didn’t know what had happened to any of us. Just recently, she writes, she had heard my name mentioned within her social circuit and found out that I was working at Watford Hall. She would be delighted to meet me, but was too old and frail for travel. She also mentions, however, that my uncle and several cousins by the name of Salisbury are at the moment staying in London and she’s sure they would like to make my acquaintance. She hopes that I am doing well and signs the letter with her most sincere regards, _R_. _S_. 

All this time I didn’t think I had any family alive besides my father, who wanted nothing to do with me. I never knew anything about my mother’s side, and now I suddenly know their names, and where they are, and that they actually want to meet me. It’s overwhelming, but in a good way. 

“Would you like to invite them to the wedding?” Baz asks, sitting down beside me in the drawing room and putting his hand gently on my shoulder. “This uncle and cousins? And we could go to see your grandmother afterwards, in a few weeks?” 

I set the letter down and look up at him. “Do you think they would come?”

He shrugs. “It’s worth an effort. It’s not too late to get the invitations sent out to London.” 

I hug him, tucking my face into his neck. I’m tearful, suddenly. “I’d really like that,” I whisper. 

*

“It’s perfect,” Penelope says, stepping back and admiring her work. “Now be careful not to touch it.”

I hold up the mirror to look at my hair. She’s styled it for me - perfectly parted and everything.

I smile at my reflection. I actually look quite nice - handsome, even. 

“Thanks, Pen,” I say, setting down the mirror and giving her a hug. 

“I’m so happy for you, Simon, you know?” she says as we pull apart. 

“I know.” I’m grinning. “You’ve only told me about a hundred times.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Well, I _am._ I still can’t believe I didn’t see it between you two all along. You’re really perfect for each other. My only regret is that I’ll be left with that preposterous American while you’re away.” 

Baz hired a new tutor for Mordelia so that we can travel abroad for a month or so after the wedding. He’s a seemingly eccentric man called Mr. Shepard, and Penelope is already quite disapproving of him. 

“Oh, he’s not so bad, Penny. I think he seems quite nice.”

She makes a look of disgust, but it quickly disappears as she gathers her things and then squeezes my hand gently. “I’ll meet you downstairs, alright?” she says. “I’d better go check that Mordelia isn’t tormenting Mr. Grimm and Mr. Canterbury.”

“Sure, I’ll be down in just a minute.” 

Once she’s gone, I take one last look at myself in the mirror, then pick up the parcel that’s sitting on my desk and, holding it behind my back, walk across the hall to knock on Baz’s door. 

My mouth hangs open when I see him. He looks exquisite. He’s wearing a dark green suit that’s fitted to him perfectly, the colour of it bringing out the hint of green in his grey eyes. 

He pulls me into his room and then takes me by the waist and kisses me. “You look stunning, love,” he says as he pulls away.

“You look _more_ stunning,” I say, beaming at him. 

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, too. “What are you holding?” he asks.

“Oh. Um, this is for you,” I hold the parcel out to him. 

He raises an eyebrow at me. “You didn’t need to get me anything.”

“I know. I wanted to. Besides, you got me my suit.”

He turns the package over in his hands, then carefully tears off the wrapping. I watch as his eyes look over the drawing, the portrait of himself, a small smile working its way onto his face. 

My cheeks heat up. “I know it’s not amazing, or anything, but-”

“Hush,” he stops me. His smile grows wider. “I love it.” He kisses me. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

His finger trace over my signature at the bottom of the canvas. “ _S. S. S._ ” he reads aloud. “What does the third _S_ stand for?” 

“Snow,” I say. “My middle name.” 

He grins, and then laughs. “Simon Snow Salisbury. How is it that I’m marrying you today and I’m just now finding this out?” 

I shrug, still smiling. 

“I could’ve been teasing you about it all this time.” He shakes his head. “ _Snow._ Ridiculous” 

It’s a cool autumn morning, the sun just peeking out from behind the clouds. Baz takes my hand and laces our fingers together as we walk outside towards the carriage. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alive than I do at this moment, looking over at him with his impeccable black hair blowing back in the breeze and his eyes shining forward. For once I know I’m ready to run straight into the unknown. 

FINIS. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for reading! I had a lot of fun writing this. I hope you enjoyed <3


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